2 poems || John Pursch

  

  

   

 

  

 

 

 

 

  

  

  

 

  

 

  

  

  

Venusian Counterpart Gel

We are surprised to find ourselves out of sequins, yet glittering profusely in tandem. Furlongs fly by, greener by the minute, flooding high-wire action figure platelet grease with anxiously deflated cobwebs of comatose settlers and paused specifics, mentioned into blinding speed by toroidal tirade mustard.

If only cunning sharks could surface daily in the dry mist of igloo yore, suppurating deeply stranded minnow submersion sleet from far beneath encrusted battle cries, spiking royal brunch powers with ague. Ochre might then spill to skilled lime peaks, frosting mown astral conifers with mystery, playing frond-ice shoe trees in commotion’s alimentary glaze of toe nut ardor.

But uncapped opinions roar to preferential paunch retiree muscles, wafting down rated wombs to habitual barriers of regrowth sunset phases, plucking noon guitar zooms from lensed tomato pinnacles on sated island streets. Bleary oxygen gears abolish truly ruthless endeavor beacons, scrambling below deck in fatuous infection’s spooled grommet brocade, despite Apollo’s harpsichord intention fit.

Now I hear a facile vacuity dripping perspiration on the dateline’s parsimony of printed page and ripe persimmons, stunning toucan accordions to pray per feasible illumination’s drunken charade. Chests wet growling wristband vets, piling false fragrance assonance among altruistic ateliers, angling for freedom’s frenetic zeal.

Bacchanalian undergrowth fills the cackles of my torpedo girth, plopping halitosis escapades in fault line proxy generations of fruity prosperity’s yellowed faces, finned within a cargo feint’s soporific omen.

Bought from pendant stories of buildings gone rancid with staircase brie in molting carrying crepes, sudden starlight wavers at fountain shirks for addled aldermen and conch holds, pinched to palatial facials, devolving to celestial rubrics of encaustic pickup tricks in sallow allegiance to endearment stirrup days.

Mucilaginous tomorrows expel an extra hemp line cardigan to furrowed mistletoe pajama batons, peeking slivers of spritely misdirection down ingredient causeway hulls, pent in Heisenberg retraction pith.

Plutonium hairballs bludgeon store-bought doorsteps to thematic batter’s ballpark end, plushly superfluous in lawn green nativity saliva, meant for oolong archipelagos of vowel-infested youth. Flaxen orators extrude parsed ignoble hominy, splicing elevated bannisters with unstable solecisms, propping crowned furriers into softball fender heists.

Bladders shop till trestles ransom doomsday cauldron canticles for pollen pumpernickel mutterings, tracking lusty continentals, forged in uncapped delicacies of blushing geriatric angles. Highland karma tears spill from shyness beacons, flopped to durable emetic friezes of Venusian counterpart gel, owning asemic radio Estonians in collared exoskeletons of closet pirouettes.